


Red Wren

by ForeignTongues



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Budding Jisbon, F/M, Psychological, Romance, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25441045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeignTongues/pseuds/ForeignTongues
Summary: "I want my life to be free. Free from my past."Teresa Lisbon is aware that the pieces don't fit. Patrick Jane is not himself, and it worries her. The picture constructs itself, but not before Jane has done the irreversible. Budding Jisbon, dark.
Relationships: Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. Dying Flame

A Robin Redbreast in a cage

Puts all of Heaven in a rage

A Skylark wounded on the wing

Doth make a cherub cease to sing

He who shall hurt the little [ Red ] Wren

Shall never be beloved by men.

William Blake- Three Things to Remember  
...

Harsh pounding on the metallic door echoed throughout the still room. City lights were prominent in the inked sky, although the windows in the repurposed apartment on the tallest floor of the police building were clouded with dust and grime. The room itself was dimly lit with only the street lamps as a source of light; one might assume that the occupant had turned the lights off for the night, but on the contrary, he hadn't bothered to switch the bulb on in the first place.

The knocking grew louder with every pound, more desperate. The unnamed knocker spoke.

"Jane, open the door!"

Silence. The wooden surroundings echoed no reverberation of a reply.

Another voice, feminine and authoritative, presented itself.

"Shoot the lock," the voice commanded.

Subsequently, a shot was fired at the door. The sound of hinges protesting against movement was heard for a split second as footfalls thundered on the floorboards.

The voices belonged to two of the people entering the room, Agent Lisbon and Agent Cho of the CBI investigative unit, with agents Van Pelt and Rigsby at their heels.

What their sights fell upon was unexpected, to say the least.

Extremities sprawled at different angles, a body laid on the worn wood of the floor near the blanket-less cot. The figure's hand loosely clasped the neck of a bottom-shattered beer bottle, glass littering the wooden planks and reflecting light like minuscule pieces of quartzite. Some remnants of the bottle glittered on the dark vest of Catalina blue, which was paired with a business jacket of a lighter shade, and underneath a thinly striped cream shirt. The polished shoes of the man were scuffed on the edges, his pants ruffled and twisted on his legs.

Blond, curly locks framed the man's face, which looked peaceful, with his eyes closed fast and the lack of emotion written on it. His chest didn't appear to be moving.

In less than a heartbeat, Agent Lisbon rushed to the side of the man, bending down on her knees to asses him.

Van Pelt gave a gasp, a delicate hand flying to her mouth, the other lowering her previously readied pistol. Rigsby stood with his mouth slightly agape, shocked at the situation, but present enough in mind to put a reassuring hand on Van Pelt's shoulder.

Looking over Lisbon to see the body of the CBI consultant, Van Pelt asked fearfully, "Is he alright?"

Seconds passed as Lisbon's shaking fingers fiddled around the man's neck for a pulse, her dark bangs guarding her glassy eyes.

"He's got a pulse," Lisbon said before sighing in relief, clutching her gold cross necklace as if it were a lifeline. "But just barely. Rigsby, call the paramedics now," she ordered with masked emotion, turning to face Cho, who was busying himself at the table a short distance from the bed.

"Have you got anything Cho?"

Cho shook his head, seemingly as a responsive no, but then he spoke.

"There's an empty bottle of a prescribed benzodiazepine, listed for the daily use of one pill, and received on May 22nd. He couldn't have finished this off in five days."

Cho's face, which was usually void of emotion, was now a mix of sorrow and anger. He took the prescription bottle and chucked it to the other side of the room, the anger taking over as it was the stronger emotion of the two.

Van Pelt kneeled beside Lisbon whilst Rigsby talked hastily into his cell phone, his left hand's fingers running through his hair in a sign of distress.

"I should've seen this coming," Teresa berated herself, her gaze never leaving Jane, "Jane's been more depressed than usual, and he's never done anything more for his insomnia other than drinking decaf tea..."

Lisbon had had been curious when the consultant announced that he had a doctor's visit just five days previously, because Jane hadn't bothered to cure his insomnia for nine years. She never acted upon her curiosity, and now Teresa felt that she was to blame for not noticing this odd sign.

"None of us expected this, boss." Grace was careful not to look at Jane's form. "You shouldn't blame yourself."

Whispers were heard under Lisbon's breath as she prayed for the life of her coworker. Rigsby and Cho looked on as Van Pelt and Lisbon crouched near Jane, who's stillness was unnerving and a cold stab to the heart of his fellow agents.

"Let him live," Teresa begged breathily, tears spilling without permission, as sirens were heard down in the city streets below.


	2. Bleeding Heart

Reason and Newton, they are quite two things

For so the Swallow and the Sparrow sings.

Excerpt from You Don't Believe- William Blake

"What happened?"

Patrick Jane was hefted onto a gurney, one hand flopping off the side before a paramedic readjusted his position.

"He OD'd on sleeping pills, we-"

"Is he intoxicated?"

"Yes."

Lisbon pressed the cross hard against her palm, her heart racing as she prospected the effects of mixing alcohol and drugs.

The paramedic placidly checked Patrick's pulse with practiced urgency, nodding his head as if his thoughts were confirmed.

"OD and intoxication, critical condition, slow heartbeat," the man remarked, addressing his unit.

Almost as quickly as the paramedic team had entered, they were out, the CBI agents trailing behind them as Jane was wheeled to the elevator, down to the lowest floor, and packed into the cluttered ambulance.

Lisbon's stomach was churning with the sickness of guilt, the organ beginning to reject it's contents. The woman had a cold stone exterior, but at times such as this, it melted away to reveal the frightened interior that was shielded. All Teresa knew now was that she was furious with Jane, angered that he could be so selfish enough to leave his friends, no, his family behind, that he refused her help the days before this awful occurrence. But every occasion in which Lisbon extended her services, Jane turned her down.

Mind returning from her thoughts, Teresa made the decision of going with Jane on the ambulance. She couldn't depart with him, or else he might depart from her for a lifetime.

The doors were slammed shut, and the van was set in motion. An assortment of wires were attached to Jane, an IV and a heart monitor included, and a breath mask was placed over his mouth and nose. The ambulance jerked and screeched, sirens blaring, and Lisbon fought to remain upright.

The beeps on the monitor began to be distanced, taking more time in-between. The head paramedic was shouting orders to the others as they scrambled to steady Jane's heartbeat.

Unbidden hot tears were swept angrily away, despair taking control of her thoughts. He's not going to make it...

Dammit Jane! She internally yelled, her fists balling as her eyes followed the movements of the paramedics.

Lisbon peered at the remnants of the broken man who had whittled away during the years she had known him; revenge isn't good for the soul. It is a drive for people, yes, but the wider range of the race and the more exhilarating the chase, the less of you there is. The heart is set on one motion; until the conquest is concluded, the soul is polluted with hate. Hate driven revenge. It kills you.

It was killing Patrick Jane. A slow kill, many years of the process, but the job was done.

No. It wasn't.

"If you can't fight for yourself Patrick, then I'll fight for you," Lisbon stated to herself, a jolt of pain hitting her, causing realization to strike. The years spent with this man had been some of the best; Patrick Jane had become a part of Teresa Lisbon. If Jane died, a piece of Lisbon would die with him. She couldn't let a piece of her heart return to dust.

Teresa stared at the wired and masked man who's soul was drifting in front of her, at the wrinkles on the edges of his eyes that should've been from laughter, but instead were from the forced aging as a result of a dark past. She looked to his hands, calloused and strong, but now colder, Lisbon found, as she laced her fingers with his.

All that Teresa could do was wait and hope.

Seven Days Previous

Patrick Jane gazed blankly at the ceiling, the small mattress he lay on top of providing little support or comfort. The room in which he resided was void of belongings, with the only remarkable note being the red smiley face painted on the wall above the consultant.

The man was in a state of contemplation, hands folded neatly over his stomach, eyes ever wide and jubilant despite the late hour of the night. His insomnia was getting worse, it seemed; Jane had not received a good night's rest for the past two weeks. With each closing of the eyelid came a flashback of his bloodied wife and daughter, lying soulless and lifeless before him. If Jane thought hard enough, the stench of iron would vaguely be sensed by his nostrils.

A shiver ran down his back, and Patrick found himself longing to take part in some action that would distract himself from his past.

But he wanted to remember.

Patrick Jane wanted to etch every detail of his family's murder into his mind, revolving the memories over and over, in a way that gave him fire and fight. It was in this way that he remained locked in the horror that was his past, and which drove Patrick to seek the revenge so lustfully dreamt of.

Tonight was somehow different, however.

As the memories flooded his being, it was as if it was draining Jane, not rallying him. The darkness was filtering through the memories, eating him alive, causing a burning sensation in his chest.

Had the guilt become too much to carry?

Was his drive simply not there?

It wasn't like he no longer cared to kill Red John; more than anything, Jane wanted to shoot the bastard until the satisfaction reached him.

But, wouldn't it be so much easier to just sleep his troubles away?

Obviously, that was not an option for Jane; it was these thoughts that prevented him from rest. There were always benzodiazepines which would help, although Jane wasn't the biggest fan of venturing to the doctor's.

Jane traced the smiley face with his mind; he could see the dark figure of Red John standing there, mocking him, as he slowly painted the mixed bloods of Angela and Charlotte on the wall, permanently staining. The blood dripped, oozing down, as it had from his little girl's sliced neck.

Patrick clenched his eyelids closed, covering them with his hands, as if to shield himself from the memory.

He just wanted his suffering to end. Patrick Jane didn't want to live in a world such as the one in which he did; he was alone, with solely revenge keeping his heart beating. There wasn't a person who truly knew him, who could understand his pain, or why he did such things.

Only one person came close, and that, of course, was Teresa.

Admittedly, she was another factor that made him remain, although he couldn't find it in himself to say it aloud. The woman was a good friend of his, like family, but lately... There was just something more.

Was this why Jane was losing sleep? Guilt concerning something of a different matter?

Whatever feelings were there, they truly startled Jane, and he couldn't shake them off.

Patrick was devoted to Angela, that was certain. He couldn't move past her, but if he ever were to, it would be Lisbon that could alter his path.

And he knew it.

Weary shadows flared on the walls as Patrick sat up, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. He began to dial when he realized it was three o'clock in the morning- when did that happen?

He stared for a few minutes at the screen, trying to decide his next course of action. In the end, Jane figured that she needed her rest more than he needed to chat.

Patrick flung his phone to the side and, drunk with exhaustion, rose, descended the steps, and entered the kitchen. Besides the pristinely-stated tricycle near the doorway, the other item left here were his china, along with some tea packets.

Jane brewed himself a cup and let the tea bag soak in the boiled water, sipping it once it had the right potency, gazing out the glass walls until the stars' shine began to damper as a result of the oncoming morn.

His eyes drooped from lack of sleep, and he slumped against a wooden frame, his body heavy from an assortment of varying reasons.

What one would witness here is a man losing hope, the spark in his soul disintegrating after a long time of careful maintenance. Sometimes, there isn't a big push that sends someone over the edge. Sometimes, it's just that they are done. They've carried on too long to have any fight left in them. Hope is a fleeting thing, rather than love; true love prevails and is constant, but hope will die within a few feeble seconds. A person can die within a few feeble seconds. But love? It lives on after death. It is what conquered the grave.

Patrick Jane's soul was dimming as the starlight did, one word lingering in his conscious: rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the next installment! Since this was written by 15 yo me, the story isn’t the best quality. I wanted to rewrite it, but even with a bout of hypomania, that idea felt overwhelming. But yesterday was so traumatic; my rabbit of 8 1/2 years passed away. I’m across the country and I’m not allowed to keep him in my household, so I’ve missed him dearly. I got to come visit home a few weeks ago and I got the chance to say goodbye to him. I FaceTimed my mother twice and spoke to him, telling him I loved him and goodbye. Also that day revealed that my husband cheated on me for at least the first 5 months while we were dating. The only time it was physical was 10 days after he asked me out; from then on it was nudes, and promises to have sex once he returned to that state. All in all, it was the shittiest day I’ve had in a while. I overdosed slightly on one of my meds, and after 18 hours all the effects have finally worn off. It’s been tough. But enough with the life update. I hope you enjoy this chapter.


	3. The Scarlet Letter

"A truth that's told with bad intent

Beats all the lies you can invent."

William Blake- Auguries of Innocence

Six Days Previous

The scent of freshly-made coffee, sterilized floors, and crisp paper welcomed Patrick to the CBI unit's station as the elevator doors glided apart for him to pass through. His pace was reluctant as he rounded the corner of the bullpen, the recent thoughts passing through his mind subconsciously adding a weight to his shoulders.

The team gave Jane little notice as he entered and rested himself on the sagging leather couch, Rigsby and Cho being caught up in some petty argument as Van Pelt sat clacking on her keyboard, ignoring them.

"I could easily take down ten at a time," said Rigsby, who was leaning back in his chair, his demeanor reeking of his masculine-confidence.

"Based on what I've seen of your marksmanship, that's very questionable," Cho grunted, who was glued to his computer, focused on his research rather than Wayne's frivolous commentary.

"Not with a gun," Rigsby said, unfazed by the insult, "with my own strength!"

Rigsby flexed his non-prominent muscles, tightening his arm and loosening it repetitively, a smirk dominating his features.

Cho took this moment to swivel around and give Rigsby a hardened glare, his jaw tightening at the absurdity of Wayne's words.

Van Pelt sighed, clicking off of a tab, being finished with one of her ever-piling duties.

"Morning, Jane," she greeted, tilting her head to see Patrick snuggled on the couch with his hands nestled between his legs, which were pulled to his chest in an almost fetal position. It was as if he were a scolded basset hound with it's tail tucked, his droopy eyes and dark bags adding to the canine image.

Patrick hummed an answer, adjusting into the nook of the couch.

Grace's brows drew together, and she frowned at his lack of response. Everyone was aware that Jane had sleeping problems; since the night of his family's murder, he had been besieged with restive sleep. "Tough night?" She questioned, using her hand to gently sweep her fiery hair to the side, then moving her seat in the direction of the drowsy consultant.

"You could say that," Patrick mumbled, eye-lids remaining shut.

He knew that sleep wasn't an option, but dozing could possibly be. His lashes blinked open, and he viewed the world in a haze; sight was altered, and noise was heightened. Jane listened to the intensified bickering of Rigsby and Cho, corded phones ringing in multiple directions, communication between agents, the scuffing of graphite on paper, the clicking of keyboards, and soon, it began to muffle, until clomping of heels stirred him from his dazed state.

Lisbon had arrived, clutching her routine morning-coffee, bangs parted and hair curled in thick ringlets. The dark suit and navy button-up blouse she wore extenuated her features, chiseling the bones on her cheeks and darkening the brown-copper shadow she had artfully brushed onto her lids hours earlier.

From the haste in her steps, the crew knew she was bringing news.

"We've got one," Teresa said, leaning partly on her right foot as she stood near Jane and his established couch.

"A stabbing on Kurtstone Avenue, middle aged John Doe, left in the dumpster of an apartment building. Rigsby and Cho, I'd like the two of you to bring in and question the owner of the apartment and the woman responsible for finding the man, Elizabeth Lane. Jane and I will inspect the body, see what we can determine. Van Pelt, stay here and wait for any information we might find on the body for you to ID him with," she ordered, motioning with her hands as she delineated tasks.

A unified "yes boss" was spoken, Van Pelt acting a little down hearted since she would not yet be in on any action as she turned once more to the screen.

Cho and Rigsby stood, shrugging into their tailored jackets, then left quickly, excited to begin investigating the new case.

Lisbon was about to follow suit when she noticed that Jane had yet to move.

"Jane, are you coming?" Teresa inquired with a heated tone in a higher-pitched voice, agitated that Patrick had no sense of urgency and that he would rather catch up on sleep than solve a murder. She did, however, see that there were monstrous bags under his eyes, which in fact had been brewing from lack of rest for some time.

Her expression softened, and she wondered to herself if his insomnia had become worse. "Jane?"

As if it took a great deal of effort, Patrick rose to a sitting position, propping himself with his arms. He appeared half-asleep, eyes sunken and barely opened, squinting against the harsh light of the sun filtering through the blinds and the expensive bulbs of the department building.

His hair was tousled, some locks parting in the wrong direction; Jane's lips pressed together in a vague frown.

"I think you and the team can handle this one."

Jane began to remove his jacket, eyes avoiding Lisbon's, who was the face of confusion.

"It'd be good practice for you, anyways."

Patrick laid back down, covering his torso with his make-shift blanket.

"Practice for what?" Teresa asked, brows raised and mouth opened faintly.

"Well, I close every case that comes to the CBI; I believe that the team should learn to function without me," Jane remarked, his arrogance flaring anger within Lisbon.

"Oh, so the CBI revolves around you?"

"Indeed it does."

Lisbon rolled her eyes, becoming frustrated with Jane's antics.

"It's your job to consult on these cases, Jane. You can't just pick and choose which ones you'd like to participate in."

Jane slowly released a breath of air, sealing his eyelids as he did so.

"Teresa, please. I can't right now."

Something in Jane's voice bled through, giving Lisbon an odd sense. Whatever it was, it made her feel - what was it - frightened?

Teresa paused, regaining her thoughts.

"Fine, Jane," she said exasperatedly. "This better not happen again."

With one last look at Patrick, Teresa turned and stalked off.

"It won't," Jane mumbled.

The Next Day

Jane studied the other people in the waiting room of the doctor's office as he sat, patiently listening for his name to be called. Patrick was often weary of these experiences because of a past in which he was drugged heavily on medical supplies during the year of his mental breakdown. He didn't much trust prescribed drugs, and neither did he trust doctors; Jane had come across many criminal ones in his line of work.

But, Jane was pushing that aside for this one day, so that he may receive the medical help he desperately needed. Or wanted?

Of course, he needed rest, and wanted it; it was obvious that the only quick solution to meeting the satisfaction of his needs was to get the pills that could end those troubles.

Another factor was at play, one that hid in the back of his mind: a simple thought, but a thought that was corrupting. It hadn't fully arose to his consciousness yet, although some of his actions were dictated by the thought. It disguised itself as rest for the weary, an evil masquerading as a mercy. Somewhere inside, Jane knew that he shouldn't follow this path.

But he couldn't help himself.

His jacket pocket began to vibrate. Jane reached in the jacket and retrieved his cell phone, flipping it open and pressing it to his ear without bothering to see who his caller was. He already knew.

"Hello Lisbon," Patrick said, scooting further back into the plush burgundy chairs of the cream-tiled office, the smell of disinfectant overwhelming his senses.

"Jane, when are you going to help on this case? We have literally no suspects; the man's name is Deacon Kilmer, a single construction worker who lives downtown, quite some distance from the crime scene. We've assumed the type of knife used as the murder weapon, and from what we can tell, it's not a crime of passion. We thought it might've been a mugging gone wrong, but there's a mysterious-"

"Slow down Teresa," said Jane, his brain rattling from the rambling of his co-worker. "I'm not going to work this case, and either way, I'm busy with an appointment right now."

"Really?" Lisbon asked, snarky-ness and skepticism evident in her voice, with hint of amusement thrown in, "What appointment?"

"At the doctor's," Jane replied, crossing his left leg over his right and resting the unoccupied hand on the wooden arm-rests of the chair.

On the other end of the phone, a light scoff was heard.

"You, at the clinic? That insomnia must be getting very bad for you to resort to this," Teresa joked, knowing good and well of Patrick's hatred for doctor visits.

"Clearly."

Jane's voice was slightly dead-panned; he coincidentally yawned the moment after.

"Look, Jane, I don't like to admit it, but we really need you here."

Patrick grimaced at her words, which cut through him in a strange manner, his heart warmed, but left with an aftertaste of guilt.

The door leading into the corridor filled with various rooms in which the doctors inspected their patients swung open, revealing a balding man in his early fifties who was dressed in the doctors' drab, a clipboard in hand.

"Patrick Jane?" The man inquired, eyes searching the sea of people in the rows of chairs before him.

"Uh, here," Jane called, signaling to the doctor with his hand.

"I gotta call you back, Lisbon," Jane stated into the lower half of the phone, having moved it away from his ear.

"Wait, Ja-"

Beep

Jane snapped the cell phone closed, returning it to it's designated pocket, then made his way over to Dr. Whittaker, as it was specified on the name tag.

Jane reminded himself once again to ask about the dangers of mis-dosage.

Current Day

They were flying down endless halls, a maze that Lisbon wished she could cheat through by backtracking her footsteps, but time was not a defined entity she could reverse, no matter how much she longed to.

Everything had morphed into a blur; her eyesight had locked onto Jane and it hadn't let go.

The paramedics slid the gurney into an unoccupied room, urgently transferring Patrick onto the supportive bed used in surgeries, or situations such as what was currently taking place.

His heartbeat hadn't stabilized; in fact, nothing about him was stable. The grim reaper was staring into Jane's soul, contemplating whether or not it should steal it as it's prize.

Lisbon was beyond the point of sense, and fought against the arms pressuring her out of the way.

Jane's body started to shake out of control, his back arching painfully, then pounding back onto the bed, arms flailing stiffly. The seizures had begun, a consequence of the mixed sleeping pills and alcohol in the body.

The doctors and paramedics swarmed around Patrick, which to Teresa looked to be a haze of color moving faster than her mind could process.

Her insides were screaming, but her agape mouth never made a sound; Lisbon's face was frozen in shock, her heart pumping so loudly that all other sound was blocked out.

Except for the beeping of the monitor.

Whereas minutes earlier it had been slow, it was now racing at an extreme rate, an effect of the convulsions; Lisbon wasn't sure what was worse.

Not long after it had first commenced, the convulsions halted, and Jane fell flat; the stress on the heart from switching between extremes was immense, and somewhere inside, Lisbon knew it would give out on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple relapses later, I’m doing better. Just tryna keep going

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic at 15, five years ago. I thought that I would cross-post it here from Fanfiction.net. Let me know if you are interested!


End file.
